


Just One More

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Humor, Juvenile Snickering Over Sex Toys, Library Sex, M/M, Magic, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't mean to blow their cover. Really, he didn't. But how's a guy supposed to react to a freaking legion of dildos?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> …this is one of those stories that started out as one thing (something serious!) and then Dean busted in and made it something else entirely. That is: very silly porn. Thanks a lot, peach.

Dean didn’t mean to blow their cover. 

Really, he didn’t.

But come on.

How was he supposed to react to a legion of dildos?

It was a little maybe-case in Wheaton, Minnesota. At this adorable (read: stifling) liberal arts college that _was_ Wheaton, practically, when you got down to it.

They were headed for the Women’s Center on Craig St., the place where, two days before, the bi-monthly “Sex Please” workshop had gone postal when some ghosty-looking dick had blown in and shot his freaky wad, calling everybody whores and heathens and nonesuch. Left every lucky guest—everyone without a Y chromosome, anyway—with a custom Freddy Krueger on her arm, long bloody scratches that spelled out some variation of bitch-slut-whore.

“Now everyone will know what you are!” it'd screamed. “They'll all be able to see!”

Yeah. Totally charming.

But for all the hoohah, for all the freaked-out freshmen they’d interviewed that morning, Dean still wasn’t totally convinced.

“Dude,” Sam said, pained. “Corporeal evidence much? The thing left marks on a dozen different girls! What more do you want?”

Dean shook his head. “We dunno when those scratches showed up. They coulda done it themselves later, after, to cover up for whatever idiot frat boy pulled that stunt.”

“What? Why?”

“I look like a girl to you? I don’t know. But maybe they just want attention. Want to rack up some cool points or something.”

Sam stared at him. “‘Cool points’? Jesus. When did you join AARP? And since when don’t you believe what witnesses say? Especially front line ones like these? Hell, they’re victims, Dean. No reason for them to make up this shit.”

Dean tugged at his tie. The fucker was too damn tight. “Look, I’m not accusing them of anything, ok? I’m just saying we oughta do a little more digging before we stake a claim here. That all right with you? Us doing our job and all? Or did you wanna stick around the dorms and play Dr. Feelgood for a while?”

“What in the actual fuck,” Sam honked. “Dude, what is wrong with you?”

Dean double checked the street signs and took the next left. “I saw the way you were eying ‘em, Sammy. It’s ok. That redhead was pretty cute.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam huffed. “Seriously. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh. Ok. Whatever.”

They sat in steamy silence while Dean hunted fruitlessly for a parking space near the Center. It took ten minutes and two adventures in bad parallel parking before he finally admitted defeat.

“Goddamn it,” he whined as they hiked back up the hill. “Stupid tiny streets. Stupid street parking.”

Sam had the good sense to ignore him.

Wendy, the Center Director, met them at the door. She was tall and cute in that haphazard sort of way that Dean had a thing for, sometimes. But she was also skittish, still shaking from the thing.

Two good reasons for him to stand up a little straighter and cinch his fucking tie.

In her office, Wendy kept clutching the steampunk strands of necklaces wrapped tight around her neck. Clutch clutch squeeze. Kinda compulsive.

“It was the strangest thing!” she sighed, sending her soft hair swinging. “One minute, I’m handing out dental dams, and the next second—bam! All hell breaks loose.” She shuddered. “It was like this live stage version of _Poltergeist_ I saw in New York once: just noise and light and sound.”

She gave Dean the eye, her lashes sooty and dark. Smoky. “But you don’t really think it was anything like that, do you, Agent Peart? Nothing supernatural. Surely.”

“No, ma’am,” Dean said, jumping right up on the Federal horse. “Of course not. Probably just a prank.” He leaned over, confidential. “But the administration here—they don’t want to take any chances. Want to make it clear that they take this kind of horseplay seriously. Put a little fear of God into the students. You understand.”

She smiled. “I do. Makes me feel better, then. Knowing you all are here.”

Dean shook his tail feathers a little and ignored Sam’s goddamn elbow in his ribs.

“So,” Wendy said, slipping out from behind her desk, all pink silk and black crochet. “Let me show you where it happened.”

And then: enter sex toys.

There were at least a dozen of them: purple and red, one trimmed in silver glitter, another with pink and blue swirls.

Huh. Fancy.

Dean was cool with dildos. Really, he was. Whatever girls needed to get off was actually kind of awesome with him. 

But he’d never seen so many laid out like that. So to speak. Lined up all jaunty along the wall behind the receptionist’s desk.

Hell, the things were right the fuck _there_ where anybody could see.

So, yeah. Dean sorta froze: a deer in the phallic headlights, as it were.

And there was a moment where he thought he’d reached his limit. That he’d finally found the point at which no matter of life, death, or otherwise could persuade him to keep his yap shut.

For a moment, he thought: _Dear Penthouse, I never thought it would happen to me, but today_ —

He cracked himself up, cracked a smile that he shot back at Sam: all teeth and very very bad intentions.

Sam looked horrified and pissed—a uniquely Sam-level spice—and whacked him hard on the suitcoat. “Not now!” he mouthed.

“Agent Lee?” Wendy called from further down the hall. "Something wrong?"

And that did it. Snapped Dean out of middle school and back to the job at hand. To the pretty woman, the smart chick who’d been eying him and not sure-as-hell Sam. 

He gave Sam a wink, one last leer to the plastic dicks, and strolled after Wendy, all FBI swagger and tang.

And he stayed that way, too, hanging at her side and nodding intently, looking real serious and shit.

Even when she led them to the back, flipped the switch and said: “This is where it happened.”

Even when he stuck his head in, made the room and realized: shit. The room was freaking stuffed with porn like _Casa Erotica Gold_ and, wow, _Sensual Cabana IV_. The good stuff.

And more dildos. In, uh, conventional colors, this time.

And condoms and vibrators and at least five kinds of lube that Dean managed to count before he ducked Wendy out. Chatted with her straight-faced in the hall so Sam could run things over with the EMF. He made small talk about her jewelry and sympathetic noises about her funding, about the very real possibility that the Center would be forced to close, if only to spare the university any more bad press.

“Too bad,” she sighed. “I love it here. Wheaton. It’s so—peaceful.”

“It’s lovely,” Dean said, only kind of lying.

God, she had nice eyes. Grayish green and hazel. Like storm clouds. The ones that said get the fuck to the basement, son: there’s a tornado coming.

So if he got a little gauzy, a little fumble-tongued in her presence, it was understandable, right? She was cute and smart and obviously groovy with porn and there wasn’t much more Dean could have asked the universe for, was there?

And she was willing to smile back, to put her hand on his arm, just a little, as they talked.

Something that Sam wouldn’t do. Ever.

At the door, Dean promised to call and Sam nodded all grave and Samwise and Wendy—

She didn’t give Dean her number, which. Huh.

It made him itchy, that absence. Put the pissy right back in his head as he stomped behind Sam back down the hill, back to campus.

Sam was dragging ass, as always, and Dean stepped on his heels twice before Sam turned around and snapped: “Hey! Watch it!”

Dean shoved him, hard. It felt amazing.

“Dude!” Sam squawked, almost taking out a kid on a bike. “What the hell, Dean?”

Dean skittered ahead, fingers locked in his collar. Maybe his tie’d shrank the last time he washed it. Son-of-a-bitch was like a vise.

He heard Sam slam up behind him. Felt him grab, make Dean turn, saw him stare.

“Seriously,” Sam snapped. “Stop acting like an ass.”

Dean tried to pull away but stupid Moose just held tighter.

“I am not,” Dean said, prissy. “I’m not being an ass, Sam. Lemme go.”

“No!” Sam said, pushing him into a parking meter. Ow. “You’ve been a bitch all day. First with those girls and then in the car and again with Wendy, and now you’re just—”

“Hey!” Dean squawked. “I liked Wendy!”

Sam shook him. Got pink and a little mean. “I know,” he said. “You made that totally clear. Trust me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you set the fuck-me-now Bat Signal on fire, dude. You might as well have whipped it out right there.”

“What do you care?” Dean shot back. “None of your business who I fuck.”

“The hell it’s not,” Sam hissed.

“Huh,” Dean said. “That’s funny. Because last night, as I recall, you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

Sam went still.

“This is about _that_?”

“Yeah, it’s about that. I mean, I get that you wanna keep your options open, Sammy. I do. Doesn’t mean I’m ok with you blowin’ me off like that. Acting like I have the plague or something every time I try and kiss you.”

“We were in public, Dean! At a freaking biker bar!”

“And?”

“And--what we do isn’t anybody’s business, ok? It’s just between us. It’s ours,” Sam said, his Hallmark mouth clashing with the look on his face: a sort of fury mixed with schmoop that made Dean’s stomach turn.

Because he saw it, then. What he’d been trying to pretend wasn’t real, was just his overactive imagination or some shit.

But no. There it was. And fuck, did it hurt.

“I understand just fine!” he yelled. “You want to screw around with me when it’s convenient. When it’s dark. When we’re alone. Where nobody else can see. That way, you can pretend it didn’t happen, that it doesn’t mean anything, right?”

Sam snarled—full-on bared his teeth and growled: “I never _said_ that, Dean.”

“The hell you didn’t, _Sam_!”

They got a nice Care Bear Stare going right there on the goddamn sidewalk, wedged up against that fucking parking meter. Everyone tip-toeing around them, Midwestern style, pretending that they were invisible.

That they weren’t shouting about their sex lives in middle of downtown Wheaton, Minnesota.

Which was just fucking fine with Dean. Because all he could see was stupid goddamn Sam.

“You’re just using me for my body, dude,” Dean hissed. “Yeah, that’s classy. Real egalitarian of you, Mr. Feminist Guy. Objectifying me like that.”

Sam threw up his hands. “ _Feminist Guy_? Come on!”

Dean leaned in. “You heard me. You’re such a prick, Sam. So goddamn selfish when you wanna be, huh?”

“God, listen to yourself!” Sam barked. He seized Dean’s belt and fucking _yanked_ , which, hello. “ _I’m_ selfish? _I’m_ a prick? You’re the one always trying to jump my bones in public!”

“Oh, really? So I only kiss when I want to fuck? That what you think, baby?” Dean panted, fisting Sam’s lapels. Still pissed, sure, but damn, the look on Sam’s face was—wow—

“Oh god yes,” Sam groaned, licking long and hot to Dean’s ear. “You’re so self-centered, Dean. You’re so fucking stupid when you want to be, you’re— _oh_ —”

Sam’s mouth struck gold and Dean’s tongue slid in to celebrate.

Dean twitched his hips and moaned, got his fingers under Sam’s collar and dug moons into his neck as they kissed, wet wide and loud, right there in the open. 

And ok, yes. Maybe Dean had a tiny exhibitionist thing going on. Maybe.

Yeah. He was sorta on board with being tossed around like a chew toy. In public. Where so many people could see.

No question: it was hot.

And the fact that it was Sam— _Sam_ , for god’s sake! Mr. Don’t Hold My Hand In Public, Mr. Don’t Kiss Me ‘Cause I’m Shy, Mr. Oh Yeah, I’ll Fuck You, Dean, But Only With the Chain Lock on the Door And The Lights Off and My Hand Clamped Over Your Mouth—who was doing the tossing just sent the whole thing supernova, in Dean’s mind.

Sam’s hands found Dean’s thighs and turned him, pinned him quick against the car at the curb beside. Ground thick and dirty fast against him, moaning, and damn if Dean wasn’t five seconds from falling to his knees and opening his mouth when— 

“Hey!” someone shouted. “Get a fucking room, freaks!”

“Hey!” someone else called. “Please don’t!”

And way in the back of Dean’s head, somewhere past the Foreigner lyrics and his father’s shoe size and the four ways to kill a werecat, his brain said: _Wait. Something's not right. We’re about to fuck on somebody’s car. In the middle of the day. In goddamn Wheaton, Minnesota_.

But then Sam growled, whipped Dean’s belt away and made for the zipper, and that part of Dean’s head shut the fuck up right quick.

Sam pushed his hand against the fabric, his fingers curling, his voice shuddering. “Please. Let me suck you, Dean,” he whined. “Be good. Be so good for you, baby. Please. _Please_. I need to—“

Dean’s head, all that sugarcoated lead, it fell back and he moaned: “God—oh _christ_ , Sam!”

“Dude!” someone shouted way too near his ear. “This is going on Tumblr!”

And that noise was enough, enough to snap Dean out of the spell Sam’s hands were weaving on his crotch to shove the Sasquatch away, get free. Managed to ignore Sam’s sigh, the one with the little sex hitch, and fucking _grabbed_ , dragged his brother up and out of the hyper buzz hum of the crowd they’d attracted. Ignored the catcalls, too, and made like fast for the Impala parked two long blocks down.

They were close. Really close.

But walking wasn’t easy, what with Sam flailing at the end of his arm, reaching out for him and making the neediest faces.

With Dean’s dick doing jumping jacks in his pants, feeling Sam writhe and hearing him beg and moan and nope. No dice. No way. Too far.

They weren’t gonna make the Impala.

So he dove for the nearest building, using Sam as a red-faced battering ram, and yanked open the first door he saw.

An electrical closet. Great.

He threw Sam inside, took two steps in and Sam slammed him back against the wood, shoved him hard, all elbows and teeth, oh yes. He pawed Dean’s zipper, ripping, dropped down to his knees, and then: oh, then.

Yeah. He sucked Dean all the way down.

Now, granted:

Dean had like zero experience with this. With being mauled by his brother in a utility room or whatever. In some place so freaking public.

To be honest? He was a little shocked, kinda concerned, because what was Captain Privacy doing pumping his dick like that and licking and groaning, those hooded happy eyes shooting sparklers into his while Dean’s whole body tensed, just waiting for the doorknob behind his hips to turn, for someone to walk in and see, see how good they were together, how right, how hot, how _wrong_ —

It made him crazy.

Made him want to see.

So he leaned back and yanked himself out and shot that fucking wrong all over Sam’s face.

There was a moment of stasis. Of calm. Of shock, probably.

Of whatever were left of Dean’s neurons trying to leap out of his dick.

“Oh my god,” he groaned. “Oh my fucking god, Sam. Baby.”

Sam grabbed him, got him jammed tight against a router or a lightbox or some other goddamn electrical thing that Dean could’ve sworn blew sparks, and damn. Sam rutted like his life depended on it, kissed Dean sloppy through all that gorgeous come and freaking came in his pants before Dean could get his tongue in edgewise.

A brief power outage.

And then:

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed.

“Damn straight,” Sam sighed, making right back for Dean’s mouth. “Mmmm. Dean. Hold on. Just one more.”


	2. Chapter 2

So the next 36 hours were kind of a loss, as far as the case was concerned.

But they were a candy corn swirl of happy for Dean.

Exhibit A:

When they finally stumbled out of the freaking closet and made it back to the car, Sam kissed him.

Not in the fuck-me flush of before. Oh no. In this way that was easy. Gentle and slow. Lots of thumbs on Dean’s face. And tongue. Lots of tongue, too.

“Um,” Dean said, after. “What was that for?”

Sam looked surprised. “Because I love you, jerk.”

Which. What the fuck?

“Um,” Dean said, all eloquence and swift.

Sam just laughed and opened the car door for him.

Dean drove for a few blocks almost blind. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because who the hell was this guy, the one on the seat beside him who kept like, smiling, all happy and rainbows and shit?

The dude who’d said “I love you” out loud. In public. Where somebody—anybody! else might hear?

Not Sam. Because Sam didn’t do that. Hadn’t done it. Not ever.

He cut his eyes over and saw Sam staring, his eyes kinda sexy and dark.

Uh, ok.

Then Sam’s hand was on his thigh, stroking, humming something hungry.

“Pull over,” he said, the words rolling lux over his tongue. 

A velvet order, that was.

Dean choked back the “yes sir” on his lips and swung her fucking wheel. Whipped them behind a Krispe Kreme, into the first space he saw, one right next to the drive thru.

Two fingers on his shoulder. Sam. Tapping.

He turned. Saw Sam leaned back against the door, his long-ass legs spread, tie stupid loose. Two fingers, again. Beckoning. 

“C’mere.”

Dean slid over, got his neck snagged for his troubles and his teeth tangled over Sam’s zipper and down.

And Sam?

He pushed his hands through Dean’s hair and his hips into Dean’s face slow, canting up in these easy beats like they had all the time in the world. Like they couldn’t hear the drive-thru speaker squawk and a string of cars idling just behind. Like anybody driving by couldn’t hear his low rumble purr as he came deep and sweet in Dean’s throat.

“Dean,” he murmured. “Dean.”

They ate hot glazed donuts for dinner and spent a quiet evening at home, mostly, Sam’s girly waves wrapped around Dean’s fingers as they watched like four _30-for-30_ s in a row.

Yeah. It was just—nice. 

Even when Sam bitched at him for eating a fifth donut, all Dean could do was grin.

"Just one more, Sammy," he said, reaching. "One more."

But.

There was this thing nagging at Dean, like a nettle caught inside his brain, telling him that there was something—else that they were supposed to be doing, right then. Some answer or whatever they should be looking for, or investigating? maybe? Some sorta Scooby-Doo shit. 

But it kept dancing away from him, whatever it was, whenever he got too close to it in his head, like a salmon shooting through his fist. It was annoying and he didn’t want to feel pissy, damn it, not with Sam a nice weight on his thighs and the _30-for-30_ marathon rolling on so whatever it was in his head, that niggling sense of _here’s what we should be_ , was just gonna have to wait its fucking turn, that’s all.

When the commercials hit just before ten, he dumped Sam and sprang for the ice machine. And maybe a Coke.

It was the damn Coke that did it.

Because he was so busy mining his pockets for quarters that he didn't hear Sam sneak up like a giant kitty ninja. Didn’t catch on until his back hit the wall, the ice bucket bounced, and Sam pinned him behind the damn ice machine with his stupid tree-trunk thighs.

He got out one good breathy “Sam!” before the so-called kissed him, unzipped him, and proceeded to jerk him off right there, barely hidden from the parking lot, from the elderly couple searching loudly for their room and oh, oh christ, was it nice, having Sam pour smut into his ear, his smile louder than his voice, and Dean signaled his approval by coming way the fuck too fast with this kinda girly gasp. 

“Yes,” Sam cooed, his cheek hot against Dean’s. “Yeah, Dean. Like that. Just like that.”

They made out in the shower languid, like hot honey molasses, and fell asleep with the TV on.

**

The next day, they moved through the motions of casework, automatic, but didn’t get a damn thing done.

Except, well. Each other.

At first, it seemed like Dean’s big brain was back in the game.

When he woke up, tangled in Sam’s tentacles, he got right hold of that salmon from the night before. Because of course, duh. Case. Wheaton, Minnesota. Ghost or something-or-other. Right.

“Courthouse,” he said later, through a mouthful of stale donut. “Wanna do that first?”

Sam looked disgusted—win—and shook out his suitcoat.

“Yeah, fine,” he sighed. “Don’t get crumbs on your tie, dude.”

Dean drove and Sam didn’t and if Sam got a little quieter on the way—with every passing car, practically, with every person they drove by—and started doing that sexy stare thing again, well. Dean did know how to work a suit.

The same could not be said, sadly, for most of the unhappy-looking dudes filtering through the courthouse lobby, which was lit like a freaking tomb.

Ugh.

So Dean made for the directory, hoping to get in and out as fast as possible. But the thing had been transcribed by tiny ant monks, apparently, because the type was fucking tiny.

He pitched forward, squinting, got a little too close to the glass, and suddenly he was wearing a big Sam-shaped blanket over his back. A blanket that was palming his arms and grinding a little too hello! against his ass.

And before he could get his mouth around a protest, Sam spun him, knocked his back into the glass, and kissed him sorta semi-obscene. 

And all right, yeah, Dean went with it for a minute. Or four. Let Sam’s hands crawl under his jacket and push a little closer to his skin. Sure. 

But crap, he could feel a dozen sets of Midwestern eyes on him, on them, judging and disapproving, and hey, hey now! Maybe this was a little, too, uh—

“Public!” he hissed, his ears burning in time with his lips. “We’re in public, Sammy! Goddamn. What’s gotten in to you?”

“Mmmm,” Sam purred with a little curl of his hips. “You, maybe. Later. If you ask nice.”

Dean’s cock raised an eyebrow.

“Um,” he managed.

Sam laughed. Gave him one more squeeze.

“Records office is upstairs,” he said. “I’ll hit up the county clerk.” He leaned down. “And then I’ll come find you, Dean.”

Which, yes. Okay.

Dean trucked his hard-on up to the second floor, because oh yeah. Right. 

The case.

He spent a couple of hours digging through Platt books and deeds, filling his palms with dust and his brain with something other than _oh god yes Sam yes sir_.

He found some good stuff, too, stuff that could’ve been useful about the building where the Women’s Center was housed. How it used to be a Baptist Men’s House until the year before, until low enrollment got ‘em booted and banished to some back room in the Student Center. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. 

He wrote fast, made a list of shit to tell Sam as soon as he got, uh, found.

But, damn. As soon as his brother wandered in, leaned over Dean’s shoulder and hummed “Hey, what’d you find?”—the list, the case, the Baptists. They tumbled down the wayside.

He shuddered and tipped his head back. Got a nice hit of Sammy’s aftershave.

“We’re leaving,” Sam growled. “Right now.”

They tumbled down the staircase with only three or four stops for stupid hot kisses, with a few more choruses of Dean’s new favorite song—“God, get a room!”—chasing behind, before they reached the lobby, before Sam manhandled Dean into the bathroom and chucked him into the stall on the end. And Dean’d barely caught his breath when Sam pushed him face first into the wall and yanked off his pants and frankly, it was a fucking miracle that no dude in the place had to take a piss for the next 10 minutes because the stall door didn’t lock and Dean kept having to bang it closed even as Sam rimmed him senseless and loud and goddamn, it was only a matter of time before Sam’s hand snaked around Dean’s hip and, fuck. Dean couldn’t think about the door after that.

Or the—

Other thing. Whatever that was.

Case? What case?

Sam put him back together way more gentle than he’d taken him apart and just grinned. Knocked Dean’s hands away from his cock and kissed his neck.

“Later,” he said.

“Right,” Dean panted. “Later.” 

Which, in Sam-time, meant like “30 minutes from now,” apparently, because that's when Dean found himself face first over the goddamn table in the Special Collections room at the university library, his tongue catching splinters as Sam spread him open.

“The librarian,” Sam panted, his fingers giving way to his cock. “She just came back from lunch, and as soon as she came in, I—oh _god_ Dean, I couldn’t—” 

Dean craned his neck and could just see a blue sweater and a ponytail up at the front of the room and, holy fuck! was this a bad idea, even with Sam biting runes in his shoulder and slapping his ass, and then he did something with his hips that made Dean rear up. Made the world a little blurry for a moment.

“Hold still, baby, shhh,” Sam breathed, his fingers biting into Dean’s sides. “Don’t want to hurt you.” 

He did that dumb hip thing again and Dean shivered, felt his spine go hot red jelly as Sam pulled, pushed his chest into Dean’s back, and apparently, it was quitting time, because Sam clapped a hand over Dean’s mouth, the other over his cock, and rocked shallow thrusts fast. “Come on,” he whispered. “Come on. Give it up quick, Dean, before somebody can see.”

Another goddamn velvet order, and who was Dean to disobey? 

“Why the hell are we in the library, Sam?” he managed, a little later and a little too loud, apparently.

Because the librarian hissed “Shhhhh!” and Sam laughed into his neck and somehow they made it out with everyone’s clothing and relative virtue intact.

Except for the table, which earned a few new scars.

“Huh,” Sam said, reaching for Dean’s hand. “Wait. Were we looking for something here?”

“No idea,” Dean said, leaning into him and biting back his best just-got-laid grin.

So, yeah. It was like that.

Case? What case? 

There was only Sam, Sam who wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let him get more than an arm’s length away. Who kept nuzzling him and kissing his wrist and shit that made the girls in the coffee shop giggle and the dude behind the counter wink at Dean all lascivious.

Sam, who got grabby with him under the table at dinner, who kissed him once twice three and tugged him out into the alley. Sam, whose head was haloed by the streetlight as his cock dug deep in Dean’s throat and honestly, Dean had no goddamn complaints.

But then:

That salmon in his head showed up again.

They’d just slid back into the booth, in fact, when the damn thing jumped right up into his fist.

“Sam,” he said, sudden. “Um. What are we doing?”

Sam frowned over his fork.

“I’m eating dinner, jerkface. What are you doing?”

Dean crossed his eyes. “Dude. I just blew you in a damn alley.”

“And?”

“And! Don’t you think that’s a little weird? I mean, two days ago, you wouldn’t freaking let me hold your hand in public. And now you—you—”

“What?” Sam said.

“You know! You—” Dean leaned across his fries. Got his tie in the ketchup. “You wanna, like. Fuck every 10 minutes. In public. It’s sorta distracting, man.”

Sam gave him this like beautiful smile. Even with the lettuce in his teeth.

“Of course I do,” he said, reaching for Dean’s hand. “I love you, dude. And I don’t care who knows it.”

The words hung between them for this long, long moment. Let the space fill with some really shitty Sting song drifting over from the bar.

“Oh my god,” Sam gasped. “What the hell, Dean?”

And it broke, then, all at once, whatever weird fever that’d hung over them. The salmon twisted back into its regular place inside Dean’s brain and oh. Oh shit.

“Oh, crap,” Sam said. “The case. We got whammied, man. Somebody must’ve made us!”

“Made us? Somebody’s been playing us like a freakin’ ukulele, Sam,” Dean said, and, ow. It hurt, saying that. Like, part of him stung. Because, right. Of course. The only way Sam would want to, like, touch him in public—much less say “I love you” and all that—was if he was under some sort of stupid spell. Right.

He dropped his eyes and, oh. Hey.

Sam hadn’t let got of his hand.

They were holding hands. Right there in the open, where anybody could see. 

Ding dong.

 _Now everyone will know what you are_! 

“Dean?” 

_They'll all be able to see_!

That’s what the ghost had said. To those girls, the ones at the sex seminar.

“Dean!” Sam hissed, tugging on his fingers. “Dude. You ok?”

The list. The list.

Dean let go, fumbled in his jacket and pulled out his notes. Handed them to Sam and reached for his keys. 

“Field trip time, Sammy. Back to the land of dildos we go.” He grinned. “And you might want to zip up your pants there, champ.”

“Fuck off,” Sam huffed, fumbling. “Your fault, asshole. You’ve worn the damn thing out.”

“Your dick or your zipper?”

“Wow. Ego much?”

Dean smirked all the way back to campus.

Take that, salmon.

**

“To be clear,” Wendy said a few hours later, eying them across the altar. “You blew your cover the second you gawked at those dildos, Peart. Or whatever the hell your name is.”

Sam groaned.

“Dude, seriously?”

Dean wiggled against the ropes and resisted the urge to slam his head back into Sam’s, because hey. Totally not helping. 

The self-righteous religious-y bent ghost? He'd expected. But Wendy? Pretty, dark-haired, not-really-into-him Wendy, as the ghost's handler? That'd been a surprise.

The Ghost of Pat Robertson Past blew out its non-existent breath.

“Gwendolyn,” it said, creaky and imperious. “I’m not certain that the Lord would approve of you killing these boys. Even if they are impeding His work. Are you certain it’s really necessary?”

Wendy threw up her hands. Almost spilled the lamb’s blood.

“Hey, who’s the corporeal one in this relationship, Reverend? And we talked about this. Your distract ‘em-with-magic plan was fine and all, but like I said: these are hunters. We leave them alive and they’ll blow the whole deal. You’ll be off the Earthly battlefield for good, ok, and I’ll be stuck in fucking Wheaton, Minnesota for the rest of my life teaching sheltered rich girls how to put condoms on produce!”

Dean rocked in his chair. Got his fingers tangled with Sam behind their backs. Sam started spinning from his side, started working his way free.

“Still,” the ghost mused, working its metaphysical jaw. “It would be a sin. I would not want your actions to reflect poorly on me. On my life’s work.”

“Your afterlife’s work,” Dean said loudly. “You do realize that you’re dead, don’t you, Parson Brown?”

The ghost scowled. “I am not a Parson, young man. I’m a pastor. A shepherd of the Lord’s flock.”

“Yeah, a shepherd in bed with a witch. I’m sure your God is a-okay with that kind of stuff, right?”

“Shut up!” Wendy snapped. “Don’t egg him on. Trust me. He can do twenty minutes on Leviticus 12:4 alone. Don’t get him started.”

“Gwendolyn,” the ghost huffed. “I thought you appreciated my explication of the uncleanliness of women. You said it moved you.”

“Yeah,” she snorted, reaching for a match. “Moved me to vomit.”

Sam tapped Dean’s palm and tagged back in. “Wait, hold on,” he said. “Pastor. I don’t understand. Why are you working with someone—for a woman—who has so little respect for your work?”

“That’s right,” Dean muttered, working as fast as he could. “Keep ‘em talking, Sammy.”

The ghost shivered. Leaned over and put its gory head in Wendy’s face.

“This woman claimed that the Lord asked her to recall me. That He needed me to stand for him, here, one last time.”

Wendy ignored it and started chanting—Latin, maybe? Dean thought absently, working his thumb through a knot. Or something older.

“She _said_ ,” the ghost shrieked, getting his tattered suit in a flutter. “That I was the only thing standing between this space—this sacred ground!—and a coven of whores, brides of the Devil who wished to darken the world with their bodies! To turn good men’s eyes from the Lord!”

Wendy kept chanting, started chucking shit into the little fire pit on the altar.

“Dean,” Sam whispered. “Now would be a good time.”

Which, no shit, dude.

“Almost got it,” Dean gritted. “Just a little longer.”

“Is that true, Wendy?” Sam shouted. “You call this guy back under false pretenses?”

She tripped over the words and stopped cold. “Damn it!” she whined. “You made me lose my place, asshole. Look. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement here. Pastor Andrews here, he gets his old stomping grounds purified. Free from the evils of sexually liberated women and all that. And me? I get out of this job, out of this town, I hope. For good.”

“Why not just quit?” Sam asked. “Gotta be easier than summoning a spirit.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muttered. “Goddamn private institutions.”

The ghost—Pastor Andrews—it _roared_. “Language!” it shouted. “Woman, thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain!”

“Hey!” Wendy shouted, flailing. “Casper! Shut it! I’ve got this under control. Now shut up and let me do my job!”

“Your job?! Your job is to do what the Lord commands, what your _husband_ commands! Ah, but you are not bound to a man, are you?”

“You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch! Who do you think you are?!”

“Oh, awesome,” Dean hissed, slipping Sam’s wrists free. Fucking finally. “An undead labor dispute. Fantastic.” 

He squeezed Sam’s fingers and hey. Sam squeezed back.

“Ready when you are,” Sam whispered.

And that made Dean’s heart all stuttery and warm, which, he discovered, was kind of a nice way to be when busting ghosts, actually. 

**

And so, the inevitable happened.

One semi-pro witch: dispatched.

One self-righteous ghost: released to his final reward. Or not.

One Women’s Center: saved. If left without a director, for a time.

“Maybe I should apply,” Dean mused, reaching for his keys.

“Oh hell no,” Sam said. “Get in the damn car.”

“What? I know the, uh, territory. I’m familiar with the literature.”

“Dean, porn is not literature. And you couldn’t even look at a freaking dildo without channeling your middle-school self. And almost getting us killed. So no.”

Dean grinned at him over the hood. “Ok, ok. Bossy.”

And Sam’s newfound affection for PDA?

“It’s gone,” Sam sighed, some hours and many miles later. “Thank god.”

Dean put his hip to the hood and stared at the diner, all lit up for breakfast and full, somewhere far, far from fucking Wheaton, Minnesota.

“Oh, well,” he said. Didn’t try to keep the sad out of his voice. Just a little.

Because, yeah. He was gonna miss getting mauled in public. By Sam. Just a little.

Maybe he wasn’t so good at hiding that as he thought.

Sam, he waited until they were inside, just clear of the front door. Where everybody in the place could see.

Then he tipped over easy and slow. Wrapped his hands around Dean’s face and kissed him. Slid his arms around Dean’s waist and held on for what seemed like forever, until Dean heard the little sigh in Sam’s throat behind the kiss. The little sigh that said _I love you_.

When Sam let him go, the whole place broke loud over his ears: some jeers, some cheers, some noise.

Didn’t matter.

“Love you, Dean,” Sam said, and, yeah, there was no mistaking.

Dean’s face was hot, his eyes suspiciously soft.

“Love you too, asshat,” he said, gruff. “Now can we please eat already? I’m starving.”

“In a minute,” Sam breathed, pulling him back in. “Just a minute. Just one more.”


End file.
